LINCOLN  & 
OTHER  POEMS 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


LINCOLN 

Other   Poems* 


EDWIN   MARKHAM 

Autlwr  of 
"The  Man  with  the  Hoe  and  Other  Poems" 


New  York 

McCLURE,  PHILLIPS 
&  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1901 
BY  EDWIN    MARKHAM 


FIRST  IMPRESSION 
OCTOBER,     1901 


SECOND    IMPRESSION 
NOVEMBER,      1901 


Ju/rv 


Catherine 

THE  TOUCH  OF  WHOSE  FINE 

SPIRIT  IS  ON  MANY  OF 

THESE  PAGES 


[vii] 

Note 

MANY  of  the  poems  in  this  volume  now  ap 
pear  in  print  for  the  first  time.     The  one 
on  Lincoln  was  read  at  the  Lincoln  Birth 
day  Dinner  given  in  1900  by  the  Republican  Club 
of  New  York  City.     The  poem  "  The  New  Century  " 
was  read  at  the  Manhattan  Labor  Dinner  given 
January  first,  1901. 

EDWIN  MARKHAM. 

WEST  NEW  BRIGHTON 
NEW  YORK 


[ix] 

Contents 

PAGE 

^Lincoln,  the  Man  of  the  People  .         .        i 

In  a  Cornfield       .       .  4 

-The  Sower     ....  5 
At  Little  Virgil's  Window 

-The  Muse  of  Brotherhood       .  .                      9 

A  Blossoming  Bough         .  .       .      13 

Kyka       .       .       !       .       .  -14 

A  Mendocino  Memory      .  .16 

The  Witness  of  the  Dust          .  .21 

The  Wall  Street  Pit    ....  .23 

A  Creed         ....  .25 

The  Mighty  Hundred  Years   .  .       .       .26 

Which  was  Dream  ?    .  •     34 

Our  Deathless  Dead    ...  .36 

The  Builders         ...  .39 

The  Angelus         ...  .40 

The  Suicide' 44 


PAGE 


[  *  ] 

The  Ascension 

All-Men's  Inn 48 

The  Field  Fraternity 49 

The  Errand  Imperious ri 

Love's  To-Morrow 54 

The  Leader  of  the  People         .       .       .       .55 

A*      .  58 

On  Seeing  Vedder's  "  Pleiades  "     .       .       .59 

The  Muse  of  Labor 60 

Even  Scales    .  .....     63 

Dreyfus .64 

Memory  of  Good  Deeds 66 

The  New  Century       .       .   '    .        .       .       .67 

The  Need  of  the  Hour 70 

The  Lizard 72 

The  Humming  Bird 74 

The  Round- Up 75 

Song  of  the  Fay 78 


PAGE 


[xi] 

•The  World-Purpose o 

To  Young  America 82 

The  Brown  o'  the  Year      .  •     83 

Wind  of  the  Fall          .       .       .       *    '   *;       *     84 

The  Free  Press 85 

A  Bargain       .......  .       .     87 

"  Inasmuch" -      88 

"  The  Father's  Business  "  •     9° 

A  Guard  of  the  Sepulchre         .  •     91 

The  Song  of  the  Shepherds      .  -     93 

The  Prince  of  Whim          .        .  .  -     96 

The  Plowman       .  .  -97 

Song's  Eternity     ...  •     98 

The  God  of  Song  and  Mirth    ....     99 
St.  Elizabeth  of  Hungary          ...  .   101 

,The  Joy-Maker .113 

The  Face  of  Life         ...  .114 

The  Story  of  Bacchus         .       .        .       .       .115 


PAGE 


[xii] 

Lost  Lands 118 

Poet- Lore 119 

The  Hindered  Guest 121 

Supplication 125 


LINCOLN  & 
OTHER  POEMS 


UNIVERSITY 

V       OF        J 

[  I  ]    ^^^OR^^ 

Lincoln,  the  Man  of  the  People 

When  the  Norn-Mother  saw  the  Whirlwind  Hour, 

Greatening  and  darkening  as  it  hurried  on, 

She  tent  the  strenuous  Heavens  and  came  down 

To  make  a  man  to  meet  the  mortal  need. 

She  took  the  tried  clay  of  the  common  road  — 

Clay  warm  yet  with  the  genial  heat  of  Earth, 

Dashed  through  it  all  a  strain  of  prophecy; 

Then  mixed  a  laughter  with  the  serious  stuff. 

It  was  a  stuff  to  wear  for  centuries, 

A  man  that  matched  the  mountains,  and  compelled 

The  stajrs  to  look  our  way  and  honor  us. 

The  color  of  the  ground  was  in  him,  the  red  earth; 
The  tang  and  odor  of  the  primal  things  — 
The  rectitude  and  patience  of  the  rocks  ; 
The  gladness  of  the  wind  that  shakes  the  corn ; 
The  courage  of  the  bird  that  dares  the  sea ; 
The  justice  of  the  rain  that  loves  all  leaves ; 
The  pity  of  the  snow  that  hides  all  scars ; 


[*] 

The  loving-kindness  of  the  wayside  well ; 
The  tolerance  and  equity  of  light 
That  gives  as  freely  to  the  shrinking  weed 
As  to  the  great  oak  flaring  to  the  wind- 
To  the  grave's  low  hill  as  to  the  Matterhorn 
That  shoulders  out  the  sky. 

And  so  he  came. 
From  prairie  cabin  up  to  Capitol, 
One  fair  Ideal  led  our  chieftain  on. 
Forevermore  he  burned  to  do  his  deed  -* — . 

'"K*x 

With  the  fine  stroke  and  gesture  of  a  king. 
He  built  the  rail-pile  as  he  built  the  State, 
Pouring  his  splendid  strength  through  every  blow, 
The  conscience  of  him  testing  every  stroke, 
To  make  his  deed  the  measure  of  a  man. 

So  came  the  Captain  with  the  mighty  heart : 
And  when  the  step  of  Earthquake  shook  the  house, 
Wrenching  the  rafters  from  their  ancient  hold, 


[3] 
He  held  the  ridgepole  up,  and  spiked  again 

The  rafters  of  the  Home.     He  held  his  place  — 
Held  the  long  purpose  like  a  growing  tree  — 
Held  on  through  blame  and  faltered  not  at  praise. 
And  when  he  fell  in  whirlwind,  he  went  down 
As  when  a  kingly  cedar  green  with  boughs 
Goes  down  with  a  great  shout  upon  the  hills, 
And  leaves  a  lonesome  place  against  the  sky. 


[4] 
In  a  Corn-field 

Who  was  it  passed  me,  his  body  a-throbbing  ? 
Who  but  Sir  Humblebee  home  from  his  robbing  ! 

What  is  that  crackle  of  chariots  whirling  ? 

'Tis  Cricket  Achilles  where  green  smoke  is  curling. 

And  who  is  it  comes  on  the  bloom-ocean  steering  ? 
Bold  Dragonfly  Cortez,  a-tacking  and  veering  ! 


[51 
The  Sower 

Written  after  seeing  Millet's  painting  with  this  title 

Soon  will  the  lonesome  cricket  by  the  stone 
Begin  to  hush  the  night ;  and  lightly  blown 
Field  fragrances  will  fill  the  fading  blue  — 
Old  furrow-scents  that  ancient  Eden  knew. 
Soon  in  the  upper  twilight  will  be  heard 
The  winging  whisper  of  a  homing  bird. 

Who  is  it  coming  on  the  slant  brown  slope. 
Touched  by  the  twilight  and  her  mournful  hope  — 
Coming  with  hero  step,  with  rhythmic  swing, 
Where  all  the  bodily  motions  weave  and  sing? 
The  grief  of  the  ground  is  in  him,  yet  the  power 
Of  Earth  to  hide  the  furrow  with  the  flower. 


He  is  the  stone  rejected,  yet  the  stone 
Whereon  is  built  metropolis  and  throne. 
Out  of  his  toil  come  all  their  pompous  shows, 
heir  purple  luxury  and  plush  repose! 


[6] 

H    *    ^ 

The  grime  of  this  bruised  hand  keeps  tender  white 
The  hands  that  never  labor,  day  nor  night. 
His  feet  that  know  only  the  field's  rough  floors 
Send  lordly  steps  down  echoing  corridors. 

Yea,  this  vicarious  toiler  at  the  plow 
Gives  that  fine  pallor  to  my  lady's  brow. 
And  idle  armies  wjth  their  boom  and  blare, 
Flinging  their  foolish  glory  on  the  air  — 
He  hides  their  nakedness,  he  gives  them  bed, 
And  by  his  alms  their  hungry  mouths  are  fed. 

Not  his  the  lurching  of  an  aimless  clod, 
For  with  the  august  gesture  of  a  god  — 
A  gesture  that  is  question  and  command  — 
He  hurls  the  bread  of  nations  from  his  hand ; 
And  in  the  passion  of  the  gesture  flings 
His  fierce  resentment  in  the  face  of  kings. 


[7] 

This  is  the  Earth-god  of  the  latter  day, 
Treading  with  solemn  joy  the  upward  way ; 
A  lusty  god  that  in  some  crowning  hour 
Will  hurl  Gray  Privilege  from  the  place  of  power. 
These  are  the  inevitable  steps  that  make 
Unreason  tremble  and  Tradition  shake. 
This  is  the  World- Will  climbing  to  its  goal, 
The  climb  of  the  unconquerable  ^oul  — 
Democracy  whose  sure  insurgent  stride 
Jars  kingdoms  to  their  ultimate  stone  of  pride. 


[8] 
At  Little  Virgil's  "Window 

There  are  three  green  eggs  in  a  small  brown  pocket, 
And  the  breeze  will  swing  and  the  gale  will  rock  it. 
Till  three  little  birds  on  the  thin  edge  teeter, 
And  our  God  be  glad  and  our  world  be  sweeter! 


[9] 
The  Muse  of  Brotherhood 

I  am  in  the  Expectancy  that  runs  : 

My  feet  are  in  the  Future,  whirled  afar 

On  wings  of  light.      If  I  have  any  sons, 
Let  them  arise  and  follow  to  my  star. 

Some  momentary  touches  of  my  fire 

Have  warmed  the  barren  ages  with  a  beam : 

There  is  no  peak  beyond  my  swift  desire, 
There  is  no  beauty  deeper  than  my  dream. 

I  make  an  end  of  life's  stupendous  jest  — 
The  merry  waste  of  fortunes  by  the  Few, 

While  the  thin  faces  of  the  poor  are  pressed 
Against  the  panes  —  a  hungry  whirlwind  crew. 

I  come  to  lift  the  soul-destroying  weight. 
To  heal  the  hurt,  to  end  the  foolish  loss, 

To  take  the  toiler  from  his  brutal  fate  — 
The  toiler  hanging  on  the  Labor  Cross. 


[10] 

I  bring  to  Earth  the  feel  of  home  again, 

That  men  may  nestle  on  her  warm,  still  breast ; 

I  bring  to  wronged,  humiliated  men 
The  sacred  right  to  labor  and  to  rest,  t 

I  bring  to  men  the  fine  ideal  stuff 

The  young  gods  took  to  build  the  spheres  of  old: 
The  fire  I  send  on  men  is  great  enough 

To  burn  the  iron  kingdoms  into  gold. 

I  hold  the  way  until  the  bright  heavens  bend  — 
Until  the  New  Republic  shall  arise, 

And  quick  young  deities  again  descend, 

Bringing  the  gifts  of  God  with  joyous  cries. 

I  lead  the  Graces  and  the  Winged  Powers  : 
The  world  the  Anarchs  build  I  will  destroy, 

For  I  will  storm  upon  its  demon  towers, 
With  wind  of  laughter  and  with  rain  of  joy. 


And  at  the  first  break  of  my  Social  Song 
A  hush  will  fall  upon  the  foolish  strife, 

As  though  a  joyous  god,  serene  and  strong, 
Shined  suddenly  before  the  steps  of  life. 

Cold  hearts  that  falter  are  my  only  bar  : 
Heroes  that  seek  my  ever-fading  goal 

Must  take  their  reckoning  from  the  central  star, 
And  follow  the  equator  :   I  am  Soul. 

My  love  is  higher  than  heavens    where  Taurus 
wheels, 

My  love  is  deeper  than  the  pillared  skies  : 
High  as  that  peak  in  Heaven  where  Milton  kneels, 

Deep  as  that  grave  in  Hell  where  Caesar  lies. 

Still  hope  for  man  :  my  star  is  on  the  way  ! 

Great  Hugo  saw  it  from  his  prison  isle ; 
It  lit  the  mighty  dream  of  Lamennais  ; 

It  led  the  ocean  thunders  of  Carlyle. 


Wise  Greeley  saw  the  star  of  my  desire, 

Wise  Lincoln  knelt  before  my  hidden  flame : 

It  was  from  me  they  drew  their  sacred  fire  — 
I  am  Religion  by  her  deeper  name. 


A  Blossoming  Bough 

A  blossoming  bough  against  the  sky, 
And  all  my  blood  is  aleap  with  life, 

As  though  glad  violins  went  by 
In  wild  delicious  strife  ! 

And  the  Suisun  Hills  again  are  green ! 

And  I  am  a  boy  in  the  canyons  deep, 
Where  the  gray  sycamores  flicker  and  lean, 

And  waters  plunge  and  sleep. 

A  light,  quick  wind  blows  into  my  heart, 
Faint  with  the  breath  of  apple  trees; 

And  my  lyric  lark  is  back  with  a  start  — 
And  orchards  like  white  seas ! 


D'4] 
Kyka 

Child-heart ! 

Wild  heart ! 
What  can  I  bring  you, 
What  can  I  sing  you, 
You  who  have  come  from  a  glory  afar, 
Called  into  Time  from  a  secret  star  ? 

Fleet  one  ! 

Sweet  one ! 

Whose  was  the  wild  hand 
Shaped  you  in  child-land, 
Framing  the  flesh  with  a  flash  of  desire, 
Pouring  the  soul  as  a  fearful  fire  ? 

Strong  child ! 

Song  child ! 
Who  can  unravel 
All  your  long  travel 
Out  of  the  Mystery,  birth  after  birth  — 
Out  of  the  dim  worlds  deeper  than  Earth  ? 


Mad  thing ! 

Glad  thing ! 

How  will  Life  tame  you  ? 
How  will  God  name  you  ? 
All  that  I  know  is  that  you  are  to  me 
Wind  over  water,  star  on  the  sea. 

Dear  heart ! 

Near  heart ! 
Long  is  the  journey, 
Hard  is  the  tourney  : 

Would  I  could  be  by  your  side  when  you  fall  — 
Would  that  my  own  heart  could  suffer  it  all ! 


A  Mendocino  Memory 

Once  in  my  lonely,  eager  youth  I  rode, 
With  jingling  spur,  into  the  clouds'  abode  — 
Rode  northward  lightly  as  the  high  crane  goes  — 
Rode  into  the  hills  in  the  month  of  the  frail  wild 

rose, 

To  find  the  soft-eyed  heifers  in  the  herds, 
Strayed  north  along  the  trail  of  nesting  birds, 
Following  the  slow  march  of  the  springing  grass, 
From  range  to  range,  from  pass  to  flowering  pass. 

I  took  the  trail :  the  fields  were  yet  asleep  ; 
I  saw  the  last  star  hurrying  to  its  deep  — 
Saw  the  shy  wood-folk  starting  from  their  rest 
In  many  a  crannied  rock  and  leafy  nest. 
A  bold,  tail-flashing  squirrel  in  a  fir, 
Restless  as  fire,  set  all  the  boughs  astir  ; 
A  jay,  in  dandy  blue,  flung  out  a  fine 
First  fleering  sally  from  a  sugar-pine. 


t'7] 

A  flight  of  hills,  and  then  a  deep  ravine 

Hung  with  madrono  boughs — the  quail's  demense; 

A  quick  turn  in  the  road,  a  winged  whir. 

And  there  he  came  with  fluted  whispering, 

The  captain  of  the  chaparral,  the  king, 

With  nodding  plume,  with  circumstance  and  stir, 

And  step  of  Carthaginian  conqueror  ! 

I  climbed  the  canyon  to  a  river-head, 

And  looking  backward  saw  a  splendor  spread, 

Miles  beyond  miles,  of  every  kingly  hue 

And  trembling  tint  the  looms  of  Arras  knew  — 

A  flowery  pomp  as  of  the  dying  day, 

A  splendor  where  a  god  might  take  his  way. 

And  farther  on  the  wide  plains  under  me, 
I  watched  the  light-foot  winds  of  morning  go, 
Soft  shading  over  wheat-fields  far  and  free, 
To  keep  their  old  appointment  with  the  sea. 


And  farther  yet,  dim  in  the  distant  glow, 
Hung  on  the  east  a  line  of  ghostly  snow. 

After  the  many  trails  an  open  space 

Walled  by  the  tules    of  a  perished  lake  ; 

And  there  I  stretched  out, bending  the  green  brake, 

And  felt  it  cool  against  my  heated  face. 

My  horse  went  cropping  by  a  sunny  crag, 

In  wild  oats  taller  than  the  antlered  stag 

That  makes  his  pasture  there.     In  gorge  below 

Blind  waters  pounded  boulders,  blow  on  blow  — 

Waters  that  gather,  scatter  and  amass 

Down  the  long  canyons  where  the  grizzlies  pass, 

Slouching  through  manzanita  thickets  old, 

Strewing  the  small  red  apples  on  the  ground, 

Tearing  the  wild  grape  from  its  tree-top  hold, 

And  wafting  odors  keen  through  all  the  hills  around. 


['9] 

Now  came  the  fording  of  the  hurling  creeks. 
And  joyous  days  among  the  breezy  peaks, 
Till  through  the  hush  of  many  canyons  fell 
The  faint  quick  tenor  of  a  brazen  bell, 
A  sudden,  soft,  hill-stilled,  far-falling  word, 
That  told  the  secret  of  the  straying  herd. 

It  was  the  brink  of  night,  and  everywhere 
Tall  redwoods  spread  their  filmy  tops  in  air ; 
Huge  trunks,  like  shadows  upon  shadow  cast, 
Pillared  the  under  twilight,  vague  and  vast. 
And  one  had  fallen  across  the  mountain  way, 
A  tree  hurled  down  by  hurricane  to  lie 
With  torn-out  roots  pronged-up  against  the  sky 
And  clutching  still  their  little  dole  of  clay. 

Lightly  I  broke  green  branches  for  a  bed, 
And  gathered  ferns,  a  pillow  for  my  head. 
And  what  to  this  were  kingly  chambers  worth  — 


[20] 

Sleeping,  an  ant,  upon  the  sheltering  earth, 
High  over  Mendocino's  windy  capes, 
Where  ships  go  flying  south  like  shadow-shapes  — 
Gleam  into  vision  and  go  fading  on, 
Bearing  the  pines  hewn  out  of  Oregon. 


[21] 

The  Witness  of  the  Dust 

Voices  are  crying  from  the  dust  of  Tyre, 

From  Baalbec  and  the  stones  of  Babylon  — 
"  We  raised  our  pillars  upon  Self-Desire, 

w 

And  perished  from  the  large  gaze  of  the  sun." 

Eternity  was  on  the  pyramid, 

And  immortality  on  Greece  and  Rome  ; 
But  in  them  all  the  ancient  Traitor  hid, 

And  so  they  tottered  like  unstable  foam. 

There  was  no  substance  in  their  soaring  hopes: 
The  voice  of  Thebes  is  now  a  desert  cry ; 

A  spider  bars  the  road  with  filmy  ropes, 

Where  once  the  feet  of  Carthage  thundered  by. 

A  bittern  booms  where  once  fair  Helen  laughed; 

A  thistle  nods  where  once  the  Forum  poured ; 
A  lizard  lifts  and  listens  on  a  shaft, 

Where  once  of  old  the  Colosseum  roared. 


[22] 

No  house  can  stand,  no  kingdom  can  endure 
Built  on  the  crumbling  rock  of  Self-Desire : 

Nothing  is  Living  Stone,  nothing  is  sure, 
That  is  not  whitened  in  the  Social  Fire. 


The  Wall  Street  Pit 

I  see  a  hell  of  faces  surge  and  whirl, 
Like  maelstrom  in  the  ocean  —  faces  lean 
And  fleshless  as  the  talons  of  a  hawk  — 
Hot  faces  like  the  faces  of  the  wolves 
That  track  the  traveler  fleeing  through  thetnight- 
Grim  faces  shrunken  up  and  fallen  in, 
Deep-plowed  like  weather-eaten  bark  of  oak  — 
Drawn  faces  like  the  faces  of  the  dead, 
Grown  suddenly  old  upon  the  brink  of  Earth. 

Is  this  a  whirl  of  madmen  ravening, 
And  blowing  bubbles  fin  their  merriment  ? 
Is  Babel  come  again  with  shrieking  crew 
To  eat  the  dust  and  drink  the  roaring  wind  ? 
And  all  for  what  ?     A  handful  of  bright  sand 
To  buy  a  shroud  with  and  a  length  of  earth  ? 


[24] 

Oh,  saner  are  the  hearts  on  stiller  ways! 
Thrice  happier  they  who,  far  from  these  wild  hours, 
Grow  softly  as  the  apples  on  a  bough. 
Wiser  the  plowman  with  his  scudding  blade, 
Turning  a  straight  fresh  furrow  down  a  field  — 
Wiser  the  herdsman  whistling  to  his  heart, 
In  the  long  shadows  at  the  break  of  day  — 
Wiser  the  fisherman  with  quiet  hand, 
Slanting  his  sail  against  the  evening  wind. 

The  swallow  sweeps  back  from  the  south  again, 
The  green  of  May  is  edging  all  the  boughs, 
The  shy  arbutus  glimmers  in  the  wood, 
And  yet  this  hell  of  faces  in  the  town  - 
This  storm  of  tongues,  this  whirlpool  roaring  on, 
Surrounded  by  the  quiets  of  the  hills ; 
The  great  calm  stars  forever  overhead, 
And,  under  all,  the  silence  of  the  dead ! 
May,   1901. 


A  Creed 

To  Mr.  David  Lubin 

There  is  a  destiny  that  makes  us  brothers  : 

None  goes  his  way  alone  : 
All  that  we  send  into  the  lives  of  others 

Comes  back  into  our  own. 

I  care  not  what  his  temples  or  his  creeds, 
One  thing  holds  firm  and  fast  — 

That  into  his  fateful  heap  of  days  and  deeds 
The  soul  of  a  man  is  cast. 


[26] 

The   Mighty  Hundred  Years 

I 

I  saw  the  Muses,  in  august  assize, 
Standing  before  the  Planetary  Norns, 

Their  faces  lit  with  calm,  victorious  eyes, 
Weird  as  the  beauty  shed  on  starry  morns. 

I  heard  a  voice  cry  from  the  Judgment  Seat : 
"  Declare  unto  the  Rulers  of  the  Spheres 

The  story  of  the  triumph  and  defeat, 

The  story  of  The  Mighty  Hundred  Years." 

And  then  the  Muses,  bearing  in  their  hands 
High  sibylline  scrolls,  sang  to  the  Sceptered 

Powers  : 

"  The  sun  ascends  in  man,  the  sky  expands ; 
Into  the  Comrade-Future  climb  the  Hours. 


"  The  dawn  was  loud  with  thunders,  white  with 

levin, 
Walled   by   the    whirlwind,  dark    with   aged 

wrong; 

Then  came  the  bright  steps  of  the  Lyric  Seven, 
And  heights  and  depths  grew  resonant    with 
song. 

"  Above  the  dead  the  circling  music  sprang  — 

Dead  custom,  dead  religion,  dead  desire  ; 
Down  the  keen  wind  of  dawn  the  rapture  rang, 
White  with  new  dream  and  shot  with  Shelley's 
fire. 

"  Out  of  the  whirlwind  Truth  that  came  on  France, 

Rose  the  young  Titaness,  Democracy, 
Superb  in  gesture,  with  the  godlike  glance  ; 
Now  stirred,  now  still  with   dream  of  things 
to  be. 


[28] 

"  She  drew  all  faces  as  a  lighted  tower, 

Strong  mother  of  men,  molded  of  lion  race; 
And  all  men's  hearts  were  shaken  by  her  power, 
The  strange,  disturbing  beauty  of  her  face. 

:<  New  seeing  came  upon  the  eyes  of  men, 

New  life  ran  pulsing  in  the  veins  of  Earth  : 
It  was  a  sifting  of  the  souls  again, 

The  weighing  of  the  ages  and  their  worth. 


II 


"  Man  burst  the  chains  that  his  own  hands  had 

made; 
Hurled   down   the  blind,  fierce  gods  that  in 

blind  years 

He  fashioned,  and  a  power  upon  them  laid 
To  bruise  his  heart  and  shake  his  soul  with 
fears. 


[29] 

"He  peered  through  nature,  peered  into  the  past, 

Careless  of  hoary  precedent  and  pact ; 
And  sworn  to  know  the  truth  of  things  at  last. 
Knelt  at  the  altar  of  the  Naked  Fact. 

"  One  mighty  gleam,  and  old  horizons  broke  ! 

All  the  vast,  glimmering  outline  of  the  Whole 
Swam  on  the  vision,  shifting,  at  one  stroke, 
The  ancient  gravitation  of  the  soul. 

"  All  things  came  circling  in  one  cosmic  dance, 

One  motion  older  than  the  ages  are ; 
Swung  by  one  Law,  one  Purpose,  one  Advance, 
Serene  and  steadfast  as  the  morning  star. 

"  And  now  men  trace  the  orbits  of  the  Law, 

And  find  it  is  their  shelter  and  their  friend  ; 
For  there,  behind  its  mystery  and  awe, 
God's  sure  hand  presses  to  a  blessed  end. 


[30] 

"  So  man  is  climbing  toward  the  Secret  Vast  — 

Up  through  the  storm  of  stars,  skies  upon  skies; 
And  down  through  circling  atoms,  nearing  fast 
The  brink  of  things,  beyond  which  Chaos  lies. 

"Yea,  in  the  shaping  of  a  grain  of  sand, 

He  sees  the  law  that  made  the  spheres  to  be  — 
Sees  atom-worlds  spun  by  the  Hidden  Hand, 
To  whirl  about  their  small  Alcyone. 

"  With  spell  of  wizard  Science  on  his  eyes, 

And  augment  on  his  arm,  he  probes  through 

space ; 

Or  pushes  back  the  low,  unfriendly  skies, 
To  feel  the  wind  of  Saturn  on  his  face. 

"He  walks  abroad  upon  the  Zodiac, 

To  weigh  the  worlds  in  balances,  to  fuse 
Suns  in  his  crucible,  and  carry  back 

The  spheral  music  and  the  cosmic  news. 


III 


"  And  now  the  Powers  of  Water,  Fire,  and  Air, 
And  that  dread  Thing  behind  the  lightning's 

light 

Cry,  Master  us,  O  man,  for  thou  art  fair  ; 
To  serve  thee  is  our  freedom  and  our  might. 

"We  love  the  craft  that  found  our  hidden  place  — 

The  beauty  of  the  cunning  of  thy  hands  ; 
We  love  the  quiet  empire  of  thy  face  : 

Hook  us  with  steel  and  harness  us  with  bands  ! 

"Make  us  the  Genius  of  the  crooked  plow  ; 

The  Spirit  in  the  whisper  of  the  wheels  ; 
The  unseen  Presence  sitting  at  the  prow, 

To  urge  the  wandering,  huge,  sea-cleaving  keels. 


[32] 

"  They  come  from  ocean  and  the  sun's  blue  tent ; 
He  lays  bright  harness  on  them,  and  his  word; 
New  pulse  from  continent  to  continent 

Runs ;  the  dead  places  of  the  world  are  stirred. 

"  Bearing  the  sceptres  of  the  mystery, 

Man  rides  at  elbow  with  the  flying  gale, 

Shrinks  up  the  ancient  spaces  :  land  and  sea 

Dispute  his  winged  way  without  avail  — 

"  All  but  the  Arctic  silences,  where  stands 
The  Spirit  of  the  Winters,  and  denies, 
With  incontestable  gesture  of  white  hands, 
And  lure  of  baleful  beauty  in  her  eyes. 

"  It  is  the  hour  of  man  :  new  Purposes, 

Broad-shouldered,  press  against  the  world's 

slow  gate ; 
And  voices  from  the  vast  eternities 

Still  preach  the  soul's  austere  apostolate. 


[33] 
"  Always  there  will  be  vision  for  the  heart. 

The  press  of  endless  passion  :  every  goal 
A  traveler's  tavern,  whence  he  must  depart 
On  new  divine  adventures  of  the  soul." 


[34] 
Which  Was  Dream  ? 

Suggested  by  an  ancient  Chinese  classic 

I  thought  that  I  dreamed  a  dream  one  night  - 

That  I  was  a  moth  on  a  joyous  flight, 

Under  a  sky  the  west  wind  cools, 

Over  a  sky  of  fields  and  pools. 

Like  a  tinted  leaf  in  the  wind  content, 

Over  a  wonderful  world  I  went: 

Over  a  valley  with  wavering  wing 

My  shadow  flew  like  a  startled  thing. 

On  through  the  waters  spread  below, 

I  saw  my  delicate  phantom  go — 

On,  till  a  flash,  and  that  bright  world  broke, 

And  I  was  a  man  at  a  sudden  stroke  ! 

And  now  a  wonder  is  on  my  heart 
Of  that  world  that  went  at  a  sudden  start— 
Of  this  world  that  came  at  a  stroke  of  hand, 
\Hung  under  stars  at  some  high  command  ! 


[35] 

For  now  I  never  can  surely  know 
Whether  in  deed  or  in  dream  I  go; 
Whether  I  was  in  that  other  sky 
Only  a  dream-moth  straying  by; 
Or  whether  that  world  was  the  world  of  truth 
And  this  one  only  a  dream  forsooth; 
Whether  perchance  for  a  little  span 
A  moth  is  not  dreaming  itself  a  man  !' 


[36] 
Our  Deathless  Dead 

How  shall  we  honor  them,  our  Deathless  Dead  ? 
With  strew  of  laurel  and  the  stately  tread  ? 
With  blaze  of  banners  brightening  overhead  ? 
Nay,  not  alone  these  cheaper  praises  bring : 
They  will  not  have  this  easy  honoring. 

Not  all  our  cannon,  breaking  the  blue  noon, 

Not  the  rare  reliquary,  writ  with  rune, 

Not  all  the  iterance  of  our  reverent  cheers, 

Not  all  sad  bugles  blown, 

Can  honor  them  grown  saintlier  with  the  years. 

Nor  can  we  praise  alone 

In  the  majestic  reticence  of  stone  : 

Not  even  our  lyric  tears 

Can  honor  them,  passed  upward  to  their  spheres. 

Nay,  we  must  meet  our  august  hour  of  fate 

As  they  met  theirs ;  and  this  will  consecrate, 

This  honor  them,  this  stir  their  souls  afar, 

Where  they  are  climbing  to  an  ampler  star. 


[37] 

The  soaring  pillar  and  the  epic  boast, 
The  flaring  pageant  and  the  storied  pile 
May  parley  with  Oblivion  awhile, 
To  save  some  Sargon  of  the  fading  host ; 
But  these  are  vain  to  hold 
Against  the  slow  creep  of  the  patient  mold, 
The  noiseless  drill  of  the  erasing  rust : 
The  pomp,  the  arch,  the  scroll  cannot  beguile 
The  ever-circling  Destinies  that  must 
Mix  king  and  clown  into  one  rabble  dust. 

No  name  of  mortal  is  secure  in  stone : 
Hewn  on  the  Parthenon,  the  name  will  waste ; 
Carved  on  the  Pyramid,  'twill  be  effaced. 
In  the  heroic  deed  and  there  alone, 
Is  man's  one  hold  against  the  craft  of  Time, 
That  humbles  into  dust  the  shaft  sublime - 
That  mixes  sculptured  Karnak  with  the  sands, 
Unannaled,  blown  about  the  Libyan  lands. 
And  for  the  high,  heroic  deeds  of  men, 


There  is  no  crown  of  praise  but  deed  again. 
Only  the  heart-quick  praise,  the  praise  of  deed, 
Is  faithful  praise  for  the  heroic  breed. 

How  shall  we  honor  them,  our  Deathless  Dead  ? 
How  keep  their  mighty  memories  alive  ? 
In  him  who  feels  their  passion,  they  survive  ! 
Flatter  their  souls  with  deed,  and  all  is  said  ! 
In  the  heroic  soul  their  souls  create 
Is  raised  remembrance  past  the  reach  of  fate. 
The  will  to  serve  and  bear, 
^The  will  to  love  and  dare, 
And  take  for  God  unprofitable  risk  — 
These  things,  these  things  will  utter  praise  and 

paean 

Louder  than  lyric  thunders  ^schylean  ; 
These  things  will  build  our  dead  unwasting  obelisk. 


[39] 
The  Builders 

I  dwell  near  a  murmur  of  leaves, 
And  my  labor  is  sweeter  than  rest ; 

For  over  my  head  in  the  shade  of  the  eaves 
A  throstle  is  building  his  nest. 

And  he  teaches  me  gospels  of  joy, 
As  he  gurgles  and  shouts  in  his  toil : 

It  is  brimming  with  rapture,  his  wild  employ, 
Bearing  a  straw  for  spoil. 

So  I  know  'twas  a  joyous  God 

Who  stretched  out  the  splendor  of  things, 
And  gave  to  my  bird  the  cool  green  sod, 

A  sky,  and  a  venture  of  wings. 

But  why  are  my  brothers  so  still  ? 

They  are  building  a  lordly  hall  — 
They  are  building  a  palace  there  on  the  hill, 

But  there's  never  a  song  in  it  all ! 


[40] 
The  Angelus 

Suggested  by  Millet's  painting  with  this  title 

Far  through  the  lilac  sky  the  Angelus  bell 
Brings  back  again  the  hail  of  Gabriel. 
Its  refluent,  three-fold,  immemorial  rhyme 
Follows  the  fading  sun,  from  clime  to  clime  — 
Ripples  and  lives  a  moment  in  the  heart, 
Wherever  the  dark  hours  come  and  the  bright  depart. 
From  land  to  fading  land,  the  whole  world  round, 
It  airily  runs,  a  rosary  of  sound  — 
Bursts  silverly  on  sainted  Palestine ; 
Lives  for  a  moment  on  the  Apennine ; 
Flings  on  the  fields  of  France  a  far  refrain ; 
Sends  a  sweet  trouble  on  the  bells  of  Spain; 
Touches  Manhattan ;  hurries  on  to  be 
A  murmur  on  Saint  Francis  by  the  sea. 

But  dreamily  here  the  hours  of  evening  go, 
With  tented  haycocks  in  the  rosy  glow  — 


Gray  heaps  that  Homer  saw  in  ages  gone, 

Sweet-smelling  heaps  that  Abel  rested  on. 

And  two  have  heard  the  summons  on  the  air. 

And  turned  from  labor,  the  embodied  prayer ; 

Bowed  with  the  fine  humility  of  trees, 

Of  bended  barley  in  the  quiet  breeze  ; 

As  faithful  as  the  never-failing  Earth 

That  gives  us  bread  of  rest  and  bread  of  mirth ; 

As  patient  as  the  rocks  that  have  been  still 

Since  put  into  their  places  on  the  hill ; 

In  league  with  Earth  and  all  her  quiet  things, 

Whose  lives  are  wrapped  in  shade  and  whisperings; 

In  league  with  Earth  and  all  the  things  that  live 

To  give  their  toil  for  others  and  forgive. 

Pausing  to  let  the  hush  of  evening  pass 
Across  the  soul,  as  shadow  over  grass, 
They  cease  their  day-long  sacrament  of  toil, 
That  living  prayer,  the  tilling  of  the  soil ! 
And  richer  are  their  two-fold  worshippings 


[42] 

Than  flare  of  pontiff  or  the  pomp  of  kings. 
For  each  true  deed  is  worship:  it  is  prayer, 
And  carries  its  own  answer  unaware. 
Yes,  they  whose  feet  upon  good  errands  run 
Are  friends  of  God,  with  Michael  of  the  sun  ; 
Yes,  each  accomplished  service  of  the  day 
Paves  for  the  feet  of  God  a  lordlier  way. 
The  souls  that  love  and  labor  through  all  wrong, 
They  clasp  His  hand  and  make  the  circle  strong ; 
They  lay  the  deep  foundation,  stone  by  stone, 
And  build  into  Eternity  God's  throne ! 

He  is  more  pleased  by  some  sweet  human  use 
Than  by  the  learned  book  of  the  recluse; 
Sweeter  are  comrade  kindnesses  to  Him 
Than  the  high  harpings  of  the  Seraphim  ; 
More  than  white  incense  circling  to  the  dome 
Is  a  field  well  furrowed  or  a  nail  sent  home. 
More  than  the  hallelujahs  of  the  choirs 


[43] 

Or  hushed  adorings  at  the  altar  fires, 
Is  a  loaf  well  kneaded  or  a  room  swept  clean 
With  light-heart  love  that  finds  no  labor  mean, 


[44] 
The  Suicide 

Toil-worn,  and  trusting  Zeno's  mad  belief, 
A  soul  went  wailing  from  the  world  of  grief : 

A  wild  hope  led  the  way, 

Then  suddenly  —  dismay  ! 

Lo,  the  old  load  was  There  — 

The  duty,  the  despair  ! 
Nothing  had  changed :  still  only  one  escape 
From  its  old  self  into  the  angel  shape. 


[45] 
The  Ascension 

Mary  Magdalene  telletb  to  the  family  at  Bethany  the  Story 
of  the  Ascension 

In  the  gray  dawn  they  left  Jerusalem, 

And  I  rose  up  to  follow  after  them. 

He  led  toward  Bethany  by  the  narrow  bridge 

Of  Kedron,  upward  to  the  olive  ridge. 

Once  on  the  camel  path  beyond  the  City, 

He  looked  back,  struck  at  heart  with  pain  and 

pity- 

Looked  backward  from  the  two  lone  cedar  trees 
On  Olivet,  alive  to  every  breeze  — 
Looked  in  a  rush  of  sudden  tears,  and  then 
Went  steadily  on,  never  to  turn  again. 

Near  the  green  quiets  of  a  little  wood 
The  Master  halted  silently  and  stood. 
The  figs  were  purpling,  and  a  fledgling  dove 
Had  fallen  from  a  windy  bough  above, 
And  lay  there  crying  feebly  by  a  thorn, 


[46] 

Its  little  body  bruised  and  forlorn. 
He  stept  aside  a  moment  from  the  rest 
And  put  it  safely  back  into  the  nest. 

Then  mighty  words  did  seem  to  rise  in  Him 
And  die  away :  even  as  white  vapors  swim 
A  moment  on  Mount  Carmers  purple  steep, 
And  then  are  blown  back  rainless  to  the  deep. 
And  once  He  looked  up  with  a  little  start : 
Perhaps  some  loved  name  passed  across  His  heart, 
Some  memory  of  a  road  in  Galilee, 
Or  old  familiar  rock  beside  the  Sea. 

And  suddenly  there  broke  upon  our  sight 

A  rush  of  angels  terrible  with  light  — 

The  high  same  host  the  Shepherds  saw  go  by, 

Breaking  the  starry  night  with  lyric  cry  — 

A  rush  of  angels,  wistful  and  aware, 

That  shook  a  thousand  colors  on  the  air  — 

Colors  that  made  a  music  to  the  eye  — 


[47] 

Glories  of  lilac,  azure,  gold,  vermilion, 
Blown  from  the  air-hung  delicate  pavilion. 

And  now  His  face  grew  bright  with  luminous  will : 
The  great  grave  eyes  grew  planet-like  and  still. 
Yea,  in  that  moment  all  His  face  fire-white 
Seemed  struck  out  of  imperishable  light. 
Delicious  apprehension  shoe  spirit, 

With  song  so  still  that  only  the    cart  could  hear  it. 
A  sense  of  something  sacred,  starry,  vast, 
Greater  than  Earth,  across  the  being  passed. 

Then  with  a  stretching  of  His  hands  to  bless, 
A  last  unspeakable  look  that  was  caress, 
Up  through  the  vortice  of  bright  cherubim 
He  rose  until  the  august  form  grew  dim  — 
Up  through  the  blue  dome  of  the  day  ascended, 
By  circling  flights  of  seraphim  befriended. 
He  was  uplifted  from  us,  and  was  gone 
Into  the  darkness  of  another  dawn. 


[48] 
All-Men's  Inn 

Death  is  the  only  host  with  thoughts  so  large 
He  cannot  find  it  in  his  heart  to  charge. 

He  turns  no  guest  away :  madame  and  sir, 
This  inn  has  bed  for  every  traveller. 

I'll  meet  you,  emperor — I'll  meet  you,  clown, 
At  this  last  tavern  as  we  leave  the  tov/n. 


[49] 
The  Field  Fraternity 

When  God's  warm  justice  is  revealed  — 
The  Kingdom  that  the  Father  planned  - 
His  children  all  will  equal  stand 
As  trees  upon  a  level  field. 

There  each  one  has  a  goodly  space  — 
Each  yeoman  of  the  woodland  race  — 
Each  has  a  foothold  on  the  Earth, 
A  place  for  business  and  for  mirth. 

No  privilege  bars  a  tree's  access 
To  Earth's  whole  store  of  preciousness. 
The  trees  stand  level  on  God's  floor. 
With  equal  nearness  to  His  store. 

And  trees,  they  have  no  private  ends, 
But  stand  together  as  close  friends. 
They  send  their  beauty  on  all  things, 
An  equal  gift  to  clowns  and  kings. 


[SO] 

They  worry  not:  there  is  enough 
Laid  by  for  them  of  God's  good  stuff — 
Enough  for  all,  and  so  no  fear 
Sends  boding  on  their  blameless  cheer. 

So  from  the  field  comes  curious  news  — 
That  each  one  takes  what  it  can  use  — 
Takes  what  its  lifted  arms  can  hold 
Of  sky-sweet  rain  and  beamy  gold  ; 
And  all  give  back  with  pleasure  high 
Their  riches  to  the  sun  and  sky. 

Yes,  since  the  first  star  they  have  stood 
A  testament  of  Brotherhood. 


The  Errand  Imperious 

Proud  England  brooding  on  the  days  to  come  — 
Mother  of  peoples  and  of  song  undying — 

Hears  in  all  lands  the  doubling  of  her  drum, 
Sees  on  all  winds  of  the  world  her  lone  flag 
flying. 

And  Russia,  young,  barbaric  in  her  power, 

With  untried  tendons,  cramped  in  all  her  length, 

Chafing  in  snowy  lair,  dreams  of  the  hour 

When  she  shall  loose  on  Earth  her  hairy  strength. 

And  Germany,  whose  blonde  intrepid  might 
Once  sent  her  Saxon  fire  on  every  land, 

Hears  the  great  Labor  Angel  down  the  night, 
Crying,  "  Behold,  my  judgments  are  at  hand  !  " 

And  elder  kingdoms  by  the  Midland  Sea, 

Whose  every  crag  has  burned  with  battle  fire, 


[52] 

Feel  the  young  pulses  of  the  days  to  be. 
And  hear  far  voices  call  them  to  aspire. 

But  harken,  my  America,  my  own, 

Great  Mother,  with  the  hill-flower  in  your  hair  ! 
Diviner  is  that  light  you  bear  alone, 

That  dream  that  keeps  your  face  forever  fair. 

Imperious  is  your  errand  and  sublime, 

And  that  which  binds  you  is  Orion's  band. 

For  some  large  Purpose,  since  the  youth  of  Time, 
You  were  kept  hidden  in  the  Lord's  right  hand. 

You  were  kept  hidden  in  a  secret  place, 
With  white  Sierras,  white  Niagaras  — 

Hid  under  stalwart  stars  in  this  far  space, 
Ages  ere  Tadmor  or  the  man  of  Uz. 


[53J 
'Tis  yours  to  bear  the  World-State  in  your  dream, 

To  strike  down  Mammon  and  his  brazen  breed, 
To  build  the  Brother-Future,  beam  on  beam; 

Yours,  mighty  one,  to  shape  the  Mighty  Deed. 

The  armed  heavens  lean  down  to  hear  your  fame, 
x^merica:  rise  to  your  high-born  part ! 

The  thunders  of  the  sea  are  in  your  name, 
The  splendors  and  the  terrors  in  your  heart. 


[54] 
Love's  To -Morrow 

For  Florence  Sharon 

Ease  of  heart  or  ache  of  heart, 
Tell  me,  Love,  the  thing  to  be : 

Flower  of  dream  or  dust  of  dream, 
You  can  choose  the  one  for  me. 

Fire  or  ash  of  fire,  who  knows  ? 

Both  are  folded  in  the  flame. 
Life  all  grey  and  life  all  rose 

Are  hidden  in  your  name. 

January, 


[55] 
The  Leader  of  the  People 

Swung  in  the  Purpose  of  the  upper  sphere, 
We  sweep  on  to  the  century  anear. 
But  something  makes  the  heart  of  man  forebode  : 
There  is  a  new  Sphinx  watching  by  the  road  ! 
Its  name  is  Labor,  and  the  world  must  hear  — 
Must  hear  and  answer  its  dread  Question  —  yea, 
Or  perish  as  the  tribes  of  yesterday. 
Thunder  and  Earthquake  crouch  beyond  the  gate  ; 
But  fear  not :  man  is  greater  than  his  fate. 
For  one  will  come  with  Answer  —  with  a  word 
Wherein  the  whole  world's  gladness  shall  be  heard; 
One  who  will  feel  the  grief  in  every  breast, 
The  heart-cry  of  humanity  for  rest. 

So  we  await  the  Leader  to  appear, 

Lover  of  men,  thinker  and  doer  and  seer, 

The  hero  who  will  fill  the  labor  throne 

And  build  the  Comrade  Kingdom,  stone  hy  stone ; 


[56] 

That  kingdom  that  is  greater  than  the  Dream 
Breaking  through  ancient  vision,  gleam  bygleam  — 
Something  that  Song  alone  can  faintly  feel, 
And  only  Song's  wild  rapture  can  reveal. 

Thrilled  by  the  Cosmic  Oneness  he  will  rise, 
Youth  in  his  heart  and  morning  in  his  eyes ; 
While  glory  fallen  from  the  far-off  goal 
Will  send  mysterious  splendor  on  his  soul. 
Him  shall  all  toilers  know  to  be  their  friend ; 
Him  shall  they  follow  faithful  to  the  end. 
Though  every  leaf  were  a  tongue  to  cry,  "  Thou 

must ! " 

He  will  not  say  the  unjust  thing  is  just. 
Not  all  the  fiends  that  curse  in  the  eclipse 
Shall  shake  his  heart  or  hush  his  lyric  lips. 
His  cry  for  justice,  it  will  stir  the  stones 
From  Hell's  black  granite  to  the  seraph  thrones ! 


[57] 

Earth  listens  for  the  coming  of  his  feet ; 

The  hushed  Fates  lean  expectant  from  their  seat. 

He  will  be  calm  and  reverent  and  strong, 

And,  carrying  in  his  words  the  fire  of  song, 

Will  send  a  hope  upon  these  weary  men, 

A  hope  to  make  the  heart  grow  young  again, 

A  cry  to  comrades  scattered  and  afar  : 

Be  constellated,  star  by  circling  star ; 

Give  to  all  mortals  justice  and  forgive: 

License  must  die  that  liberty  may  live. 

Let  Love  shine  through  the  fabric  of  the  State  — 

Love  deathless.  Love  whose  other  name  is  Fate. 

Fear  not :  we  cannot  fail — 

'The  Vision  will  -prevail. 

Truth  is  the  Oath  of  God,  and,  sure  and  fast, 

'Through  Death  and  Hell  holds  onward  to  the  last. 


[58] 
Art 

To  Howard  Pyle 

At  her  light  touch,  behold  !  a  voice  proceeds 
Out  of  all  things  to  chide  our  sordid  deeds  ; 
A  beauty  breaks,  a  beauty  ever  strange, 
The  Changeless  that  is  back  of  all  the  change. 
Lightly  it  comes  as  when  a  rose  would  be  — 
Takes  feature  yet  remains  a  mystery. 


[59] 
On  Seeing  Vedder's  "  Pleiades" 

I  hear  a  burst  of  music  on  the  night ! 

Look  at  the  white  whirl  of  their  bodies,  see 
The  sweep  of  arms  seraphical  and  free, 

And  over  their  heads  a  rush  of  circling  light, 

That  draws  them  on  with  mystery  and  might : 
But  O  the  wild  dance  and  the  deathless  song, 
And  O  the  lifted  faces  glad  and  strong  — 

Eternal  passion  burning  still  and  white  ! 

But  she  who  glances  downward,  who  is  she, 
Her  face  stilled  with  the  shadow  of  a  pain  ? 
The  one  who  let  all  go  for  that  mad  chance  ? 

And  does  some  sudden  gust  of  memory, 

Bringing    the    earth,     sweep    back     into     the 
brain  ? 

But  O  the  wild  white  whirl  of  the  wild  dance  ! 


[6o] 
The  Muse  of  Labor 

And  I  saw  a  New  Heaven  and  a  New  Earth. — ST.  JOHN. 

I  come,  O  heroes,  to  the  world  gone  wrong ; 

I  bring  the  hope  of  nations ;  and  I  bear 
The  warm  first  rush  of  rapture  in  my  song, 

The  faint  first  light  of  morning  on  my  hair. 

I  look  upon  the  ages  from  a  tower ; 

I  am  the  Muse  of  the  Fraternal  State ; 
No  hand  can  hold  me  from  my  crowning  hour ; 

My  song  is  Freedom  and  my  step  is  Fate. 

The  toilers  go  on  broken  at  the  heart ; 

They  send  the  spell  of  beauty  on  all  lands ; 
But  what  avail?  the  builders  have  no  part  — 

No  share  in  all  the  glory  of  their  hands. 

I  have  descended  from  Alcyone ; 

I  am  the  muse  of  Labor  and  of  Mirth ; 


I  come  to  break  the  chain  of  infamy. 

That  Greed's  blind  hammers  forge  about  the 
earth. 

I  have  descended  from  the  Hidden  Place, 

To  make  dumb  spirits  speak  and  dead  feet  start : 

I  feel  the  wind  of  battles  in  my  face, 
I  hear  the  song  of  nations  in  my  heart. 

I  stand  by  Him,  the  Hero  of  the  Cross, 

To  hurl  down  traitors  that  misspend  His  bread  ; 

I  touch  the  star  of  mystery  and  loss 

To  shake  the  kingdoms  of  the  living  dead. 

I  wear  the  flower  of  Christus  for  a  crown ; 

I  poise  the  suns  and  give  to  each  a  name ; 
And  through  the  hushed  Eternity  bend  down 

To  strengthen  gods  and  keep  their  souls  from 
blame. 


[62] 

I  come  to  overthrow  the  ancient  wrong, 

To  let  the  joy  of  nations  rise  again  ; 
/I  am  Unselfish  Service,  I  am  Song, 

I  am  the  Hope  that  feeds  the  hearts  of  men. 

I  am  the  Vision  in  the  world-eclipse, 

And  where  I  pass  the  feet  of  Beauty  burn  ; 

And  when  I  set  the  bugle  to  my  lips, 

The  youth  of  work-worn  races  will  return. 

I  am  Religion  and  the  church  I  build, 

Stands  on  the  sacred  flesh  with  passion  packed ; 

In  me  the  ancient  gospels  are  fulfilled  — 
In  me  the  symbol  rises  into  Fact. 

I  am  the  maker  of  the  People's  bread, 
I  bear  the  little  burdens  of  the  day; 

Yet  in  the  Mystery  of  Song  I  tread 

The  endless  heavens  and  show  the  stars  their  way. 


[63] 
Even  Scales 

The  robber  is  robbed  by  his  riches ; 

The  tyrant  is  dragged  by  his  chain ; 
The  schemer  is  snared  by  his  cunning; 

The  slayer  lies  dead  by  the  slain. 


Dreyfus 
I 

A  man  stood  stained  !    France  was  one  Alp  of  hate, 
Pressing  upon  him  with  its  iron  weight. 
In  all  the  circle  of  the  ancient  sun, 
There  was  no  voice  to  speak  for  him  —  not  one. 
In  all  the  world  of  men  there  was  no  sound 
But  of  a  sword  flung  broken  to  the  ground. 
"  'Tis  done  !  "  they  said,  "  unless  a  felon  soul 
Can  tear  the  leaves  out  of  the  Judgment  Scroll." 

Hell  laughed  a  little  season,  then  behold 
How  one  by  one  the  gates  of  God  unfold  ! 
Swiftly  a  sword  by  Unseen  Forces  hurled, 
And  then  a  man  rising  against  the  world ! 


[65] 
II 

Oh,  import  deep  as  life  is,  deep  as  time ! 
There  is  a  Something  sacred  and  sublime, 
Moving  behind  the  worlds,  beyond  our  ken, 
Weighing  the  stars,  weighing  the  deeds  of  men. 

Take  heart,  O  soul  of  sorrow,  and  be  strong : 
There  is  One  greater  than  the  whole  world's  wrong. 
Be  hushed  before  the  high  benignant  Power 
That  goes  untarrying  to  the  reckoning  hour. 

O  men  that  forge  the  fetter,  it  is  vain : 
There  is  a  Still  Hand  stronger  than  your  chain. 
'Tis  no  avail  to  bargain,  sneer,  and  nod, 
And  shrug  the  shoulder  for  reply  to  God. 
October, 


[66] 
Memory  of  Good  Deeds 

The  memory  of  good  deeds  will  ever  stay, 

A  lamp  to  light  us  on  the  darkened  way, 

A  music  to  the  ear  on  clamoring  street, 

A  cooling  well  amid  the  noonday  heat, 

A  scent  of  green  boughs  blown  through  narrow 

walls, 
A  feel  of  rest  when  quiet  evening  falls. 


[6.7] 
The  New  Century 

While  cities  rose  and  blossomed  into  dust, 
While  shadowy  lines  of  kings  were  blown  to  air, 
What  was  the  Purpose  brooding  on  the  world, 
Through  the  large  leisure  of  the  centuries  ? 
And  what  the  end  —  failure  or  victory  ? 

Lo,  man  has  laid  his  sceptre  on  the  stars, 

And  sent  his  spell  upon  the  continents. 

The  heavens  confess  their  secrets,  and  the  stones, 

Silent  as  God,  publish  their  mystery. 

Man  calls  the  lightning  from  its  secret  place, 

That  he  may  shrink  the  spaces  of  the  world, 

And  eavesdrop  at  the  latched  Antipodes. 

The  wild,  white,  smoking  horses  of  the  sea 

Are  startled  by  his  thunders.     The  World-Powers 

Crowd  round  to  be  the  lackeys  of  the  king. 

His  hand  has  torn  the  veil  of  the  Great  Law, 
The  law  that  was  before  the  worlds  —  before 


[68] 

That  far  First  Whisper  on  the  ancient  deep, 
The  law  that  swings  Arcturus  on  the  North, 
And  hurls  the  soul  of  man  upon  the  way. 
But  what  avail,  O  builders  of  the  world, 
Unless  ye  build  a  safety  for  the  soul  ? 
Man  has  put  harness  on  Leviathan, 
And  hooks  in  his  incorrigible  jaws  ; 
And  yet  the  Perils  of  the  Street  remain. 
Out  of  the  whirlwind  of  the  cities  rise 
Lean  Hunger  and  the  Worm  of  Misery, 
The  heartbreak  and  the  cry  of  mortal  tears. 

But  hark,  the  bugles  blowing  on  the  peaks ; 

And  hark,  a  murmur  as  of  many  feet, 

The  cry  of  captains,  the  divine  alarm ! 

Look  !  the  last  son  of  Time  comes  hurrying  on, 

The  strong  young  Titan  of  Democracy  ! 

With  swinging  step  he  takes  the  open  road, 

In  love  with  the  winds  that  beat  his  hairy  breast. 


[69] 

Baring  his  sunburnt  strength  to  all  the  world, 
He  casts  his  eyes  abroad  with  Jovian  glance  — 
Searches  the  tracks  of  old  Tradition  ;  scans 
With  rebel  heart  the  Book  of  Pedigree ; 
Peers  into  the  face  of  Privilege  and  cries, 
"Why  are  you  halting  in  the  path  of  man? 
Is  it  your  shoulder  bears  the  human  load  ? 
Do  you  draw  down  the  rains  of  the  sweet  heaven, 
And  keep  the  green  things  growing  ?  Back  to  hell ! " 

God  is  descending  from  eternity, 

And  all  things,  good  and  evil,  build  the  road. 

Yea,  down  in  the  thick  of  things,  the  men  of  greed 

Are  thumping  the  inhospitable  clay. 

By  wondrous  toils  the  men  without  the  Dream, 

Led  onward  by  a  something  unawares, 

Are  laying  the  foundations  of  the  Dream, 

The  Kingdom  of  Fraternity  foretold. 


The  Need  of  the  Hour 

Fling  forth  the  triple-colored  flag  to  dare 
The  bright,  untraveled  highways  of  the  air. 
Blow  the  undaunted  bugles,  blow,  and  yet 
Let  not  the  boast  betray  us  to  forget. 
Lo,  there  are  high  adventures  for  this  hour  — 
Tourneys  to  test  the  sinews  of  our  power. 
For  we  must  parry  —  as  the  years  increase  — 
The  hazards  of  success,  the  risks  of  peace ! 

What  do  we  need  to  keep  the  nation  whole, 
To  guard  the  pillars  of  the  State  ?     We  need 
The  fine  audacities  of  honest  deed ; 
The  homely  old  integrities  of  soul ; 
The  swift  temerities  that  take  the  part 
Of  outcast  right — the  wisdom  of  the  heart; 
Brave  hopes  that  Mammon  never  can  detain, 
Nor  sully  with  his  gainless  clutch  for  gain. 


[7'] 
We  need  the  Cromwell  fire  to  make  us  feel 

The  common  burden  and  the  public  trust 
To  be  a  thing  as  sacred  and  august 
As  the  white  vigil  where  the  angels  kneel. 
We  need  the  faith  to  go  a  path  untrod, 
The  power  to  be  alone  and  vote  with  God. 


[72] 
The  Lizard 

I  sit  among  the  hoary  trees 
With  Aristotle  on  my  knees, 
And  turn  with  serious  hand  the  pages, 
Lost  in  the  cobweb-hush  of  ages ; 
When  suddenly  with  no  more  sound 
Than  any  sunbeam  on  the  ground, 
The  little  hermit  of  the  place 
Is  peering  up  into  my  face  — 
The  slim  gray  hermit  of  the  rocks, 
With  bright  inquisitive,  quick  eyes, 
His  life  a  round  of  harks  and  shocks, 
A  little  ripple  of  surprise. 

Now  lifted  up,  intense  and  still, 
Sprung  from  the  silence  of  the  hill 
He  hangs  upon  the  ledge  a-glisten, 
And  his  whole  body  seems  to  listen  ! 
My  pages  give  a  little  start, 


[73] 

And  he  is  gone  !  to  be  a  part 
Of  the  old  cedar's  crumpled  bark, 
A  mottled  scar,  a  weather-mark  ! 

How  halt  am  I,  how  mean  of  birth, 
Beside  this  darting  pulse  of  earth  ! 
I  only  have  the  wit  to  look 
Into  a  big  presumptuous  book, 
To  find  some  sage's  rigid  plan 
To  tell  me  how  to  be  a  man. 
Tradition  lays  its  dead  hand  cold 
Upon  our  youth  —  and  we  are  old. 
But  this  wise  hermit,  this  gray  friar, 
He  has  no  law  but  heart's  desire. 
He  somehow  touches  higher  truthp 
The  circle  of  eternal  youth. 


[74] 
The  Humming  Bird 

A  sudden  whir  of  eager  sound — 

And  now  a  something  throbs  around 

The  flowers  that  watch  the  fountain.     Look ! 

It  touched  the  rose,  the  green' leaves  shook, 

I  think,  and  yet  so  lightly  tost 

That  not  a  spark  of  dew  was  Lost. 

Tell  me,  O  Rose,  what  thing  i^  is 
That  now  appears,  now  vanishes  ? 
Surely  it  took  its  fire-green  hue 
From  daybreaks  that  it  glittered  through ; 
Quick,  for  this  sparkle  of  the  dawn 
Glints  through  the  garden  and  is  gone. 

What  was  the  message,  Rose,  what  word ; 
Delight  foretold,  or  hope  deferred  ? 


[75] 
The  Round-Up 

Down,  down  the  wild  canyons  we  go  in  a  flurry ; 
The  cedars  sweep  by  in  their  mystical  hurry ; 
Gone  into  the  wind  are  the  languor  and  worry  — 

Gone  into  the  west  with  the  phantom  moon. 
Ho  !  there  is  the  lord  of  the  hills  and  the  valleys; 
It  is  he  that  leads  in  the  midsummer  sallies 
High  into  the  steeps  where  the  gray  chaparral  is ; 

It  is  he  that  leads  to  the  low  lagoon. 

Where  the  wild  mustard  splashes  the  slope  with 

yellow, 

He  has  turned  at  bay  —  ah,  the  powerful  fellow  ! 
See  the  toss  of  his  head  —  hear  the  breath  and  the 

bellow  ; 

How  he  tears  the  ground  with  his  angry  hoofs  ! 
Now   he  breaks  a  wild   path  through  the   deep, 

plumy  rushes, 

( A  loud  bird  high  on  a  tamarack  hushes) 
Right  on  through  a  glory  of  crimson  he  crushes, 
On  into  the  gloom  under  leafy  roofs. 


[76] 

Oh,  the  joy  of  the  wind  in  our  faces!    We  follow 
The  cattle  —  we  shout  down  the  poppy-hung  hol 
low. 
Lo  !  out  of  the  cliff  we  have  startled  a  swallow, 

And  startled  the  echoes  on  rocky  fells. 
Ho  !  what  was  it  passed  ?  Were  they  leaves  —  were 

they  sparrows 

That  whispered  away  like  a  hurtle  of  arrows  ? 
The  rose-odor  thickens  — the  deep  gorge  narrows; 
Now  the  herd  takes  down  through  the  scented 
dells. 

Speed,  speed,  leave  the  brooks  to  their  potter  and 

prattle ; 

Sweep  on  with  the  thunder  and  surge  of  the  cattie, 
The  hurry,  the  voices,  the  keen  joy  of  battle  — 

The  hills  and  the  wind  and  the  open  light. 
Now  on  into  camp  by  the  sycamores  yonder ; 


[77] 

Now  o'er  the  guitar  let  the  light  fingers  wander ; 
Let  thoughts  in  the  high  heart  grow  pensive  and 

fonder ; 
Then  stars  and  the  dream  of  a  summer  night. 


[78] 
Song  of  the  Fay 

My  life  is  a  dream,  a  dream, 

In  the  moon's  cool  beam; 

Some  day  I  shall  wake  and  desire 

A  touch  of  the  infinite  fire. 

But  now  'tis  enough  that  I  be 

In  the  light  on  the  sea; 

Enough  that  I  climb  with  the  cloud 

When  the  winds  of  the  morning  are  loud ; 

Enough  that  I  fade  with  my  star 

When  the  doors  of  the  East  unbar. 

My  life  is  a  long  delight 

In  the  wonder  of  night. 

I  quiet  the  heart  of  the  rose 

When  she  quakes  at  the  thought  of  the  snows; 

I  count  the  blown  leaves  of  the  Fall, 

And  I  comfort  them  all. 


[79] 

Sometimes  I  awake  with  a  start 
In  the  song  of  a  poet's  heart. 
Some  day  I  shall  know  life  whole  — 
Shall  suffer  and  find  me  a  soul. 


[8o] 
The  World-Purpose 

Men  sadly  say  that  Love's  high  dream  is  vain, 

That  one  force  holds  the  heart  —  the  hope  of 

gain. 
Are,  then,  the  August  Powers  behind  the  veil 

Weary  of  watch  and  powerless  to  prevail  ? 
Have  they  grown  palsied  with  the  creep  of  age, 

And  do  they  burn  no  more  with  pallid  rage  ? 
Are  the  shrines  empty  and  the  altars  cold, 

Where  once  the  saints  and  heroes  knelt  of  old  ? 

Not  so :  the  vast  inbrothering  of  man  — 

The  glory  of  the  universe  —  began 
When  first  the  heart  of  the  Mother  Darkness  heard 

The  Whisper,  and  the  ancient  chaos  stirred. 
Ever  the  feet  of  Christ  were  in  events, 

Bridging  the  seas,  shaking  the  continents. 

His  feet  are  heard  in  the  historic  march 

Under  the  whirlwind,  under  the  starry  arch. 


Forever  the  Great  Purpose  presses  on, 

From  darkness  unto  darkness,  dawn  to  dawn. 

Resolved  to  lay  the  rafter  and  the  beam 
Of  Justice  —  the  imperishable  Dream. 

This  is  the  voice  of  Time  against  the  Hours ; 

This  is  the  witness  of  the  Cosmic  Powers ; 
This  is  the  Music  of  the  Ages  —  this 

The  songwhose  first  note  broke  the  First  Abyss. 

All  that  we  glory  in  was  once  a  dream ; 

The   World-Will  marches  onward,  gleam  by 

gleam. 
New  voices  speak,  dead  paths  begin  to  stir : 

Man  is  emerging  from  the  sepulchre! 
Let  no  man  dare,  let  no  man  ever  dare 

To  mark  on   Time's  great  way,  "  No  Thor 
oughfare!" 


[82] 

To  Young  America 

In  spite  of  the  stare  of  the  wise  and  the  world's 

derision, 
Dare  travel  the  star-blazed  road,  dare  follow  the 

Vision. 

It  breaks  as  a  hush  on  the  soul  in  the  wonder  of 

youth ; 
And  the  lyrical  dream  of  the  boy  is  the  kingly 

truth. 

The  world  is  a  vapor,  and  only  the  Vision  is  real  — 
Yea,  nothing  can  hold  against  Hell  but  the  Winged 
Ideal. 


The  Brown  o'  the  Year 

What  would  you  speak  with  that  visage  old, 

O  cliff  by  the  windy  shore  ? 
What  passion  that  never  a  song  could  hold  — 

What  word  of  the  Nevermore  ? 

What  would  you  tell  with  that  silent  look, 

O  bleak,  bare  oak  by  the  way  ? 
Earth's  grief  is  all  in  that  bough  that  shook, 

That  leaf  that  could  not  stay. 


[84] 
Wind  of  the  Fall 

I  hear  that  wail  in  the  windy  pine 

And  I  suddenly  know  : 
It  wakes  in  my  heart  a  dream  divine 

And  a  sacred  woe. 

I  heard  that  cry  from  your  spirit  then, 

0  wind  of  the  Fall! 

I,  too,  have  carried  the  grief  of  men  ; 

1  have  felt  it  all. 


[85] 
The  Free  Press 

Hail,  young  Prometheus,  risen  again  to  Time, 

The  friend  of  man  and  foeman  of  man's  Foe  ! 

Climb  the  new  heavens  and  seize  the  nobler  fire. 

Still  teach  the  wisdom  of  the  plough  and  loom, 

The  sweetness  of  the  threshold  and  the  hearth. 

Be  to  the  sower  of  the  field  a  sign 

To  point  the  circuits  of  the  frost,  a  voice 

To  cry  the  coming  of  the  hurricane. 

Be  to  the  scholar,  by  his  waning  lamp, 

A  bringer  of  the  tidings  of  the  stars, 

News  of  the  forces  and  the  frame  of  things. 

Be  to  the  poet,  leagued  with  Death  and  Eld, 

A  Memnon  whisper  of  the  Mystery, 

Life's  lofty  joy  and  immemorial  grief. 

Be  to  the  calm  historian  a  glass 

Where,  through  the  rush  of  phantoms,  he  can  see 

The  majesty  and  quietness  of  Truth, 

The  craft  of  God,  the  lure  and  threat  of  Time. 


[86] 

Hail,  Titan,  with  the  hair  upon  your  breast ! 
Be  terrible  in  battle  to  throw  down 
The  stronghold  of  the  traitors  and  their  crew. 
Flash  down  the  sky-born  lightnings  of  the  Pen  ; 
Let  loose  the  cramped-up  thunders  of  the  Types. 
Hurl  on  the  Jupiter  of  Greed  enthroned 
Defiance,  endless  challenge,  fire  of  scorn. 
Stand  out  upon  the  walls  of  darkness  —  stand 
A  young  god  with  a  bugle  at  his  lips 
To  rouse  the  watchmen  sleeping  on  their  towers. 
Fling  out  the  banner  of  the  People's  Right  — 
A  flag  in  love  with  all  the  winds  of  heaven  ; 
Plunge  your  dread  sword  into  the  Spoiler's  den; 
Hurl  down  into  the  faces  of  the  thieves 

The  blaze  of  its  intolerable  light 

Fail  not,  for  in  your  failure  Freedom  fails ! 


[87] 
A  Bargain 

Scoffer,  you  cry,   "  Where  is  your  '  other  world/ 
Your  fabled  heaven  in  far  eternities  ?" 

Well  said,  but  first,  before  your  lip  is  curled, 
Tell  ('tis  a  little  thing  )  where  this  world  is  ! 


[88] 
"  Inasmuch  .  .  .  ." 

Wild  tempest  swirled  on  Moscow's  castled  height; 
Wild  sleet  shot  slanting  down  the  wind  of  night; 
Quicksnarling  mouths  from  out  the  darkness  sprang 
To  strike  you  in  the  face  with  tooth  and  fang. 
Javelins  of  ice  hung  on  the  roofs  of  all ; 

The  very  stones  were  aching  in  the  wall. 
Where  Ivan  stood  a  watchman  on  his  hour, 
Guarding  the  Kremlin  by  the  northern  tower, 
When,  lo  !  a  half-bare  beggar  tottered  past, 
Shrunk  up  and  stiffened  in  the  bitter  blast. 
A  heap  of  misery  he  drifted  by, 
And  from  the  heap  came  out  a  broken  cry. 

At  this  the  watchman  straightened  with  a  start ; 
A  tender  grief  was  tugging  at  his  heart, 
The  thought  of  his  dead  father,  bent  and  old 
And  lying  lonesome  in  the  ground  so  cold. 
Then  cried  the  watchman  starting  from  his  post : 


[89] 

cc  Little  father,  this  is  yours  ;  you  need  it  most ! " 
And  tearing  off  his  hairy  coat,  he  ran 
And  wrapt  it  warm  around  the  beggar  man. 

That  night  the  piling  snows  began  to  fall, 
And  the  good  watchman  died  beside  the  wall. 
But  waking  in  the  Better  Land  that  lies 
Beyond  the  reaches  of  these  cooping  skies, 
Behold,  the  Lord  came  out  to  greet  him  home, 
Wearing  the  coat  he  gave  by  Moscow's  dome  — 
Wearing  the  hairy  heavy  coat  he  gave 
By  Moscow's  tower  before  he  felt  the  grave ! 

And  Ivan,  by  the  old  Earth-memory  stirred, 

Cried  softly  with  a  wonder  in  his  word : 

"  And  where,  dear  Lord,  found  you  this  coat  of 

mine, 

A  thing  unfit  for  glory  such  as  Thine  ?" 
Then  the  Lord  answered  with  a  look  of  light : 
cc  This  coat,  My  son,  you  gave  to  Me  last  night.'* 


[90] 
"The  Father's  Business" 

Who  puts  back  into  place  a  fallen  bar, 
Or  flings  a  rock  out  of  a  traveled  road, 

His  feet  are  moving  toward  the  central  star, 
His  name  is  whispered  in  the  God's  abode. 


A  Guard  of  the  Sepulchre 

Behold,  some  of  the  watch  came  into  the  city  and  told 
unto  the  Chief  Priests  all  the  things  that  were  come  to  pass, 
and  ....  they  gave  large  money  unto  the  soldiers,  saying  : 
Say,  His  disciples  came  by  night  and  stole  Him  away  while 
we  slept.  —  MATTHEW. 

I  was  a  Roman  soldier  in  my  prime ; 
Now  age  is  on  me  and  the  yoke  of  time. 
I  saw  your  Risen  Christ,  for  I  am  he 
Who  reached  the  hyssop  to  Him  on  the  tree ; 
And  I  am  one  of  two  who  watched  beside 
The  Sepulchre  of  Him  we  crucified. 

All  that  last  night  I  watched  with  sleepless  eyes ; 
Great  stars  arose  and  crept  across  the  skies. 
The  world  was  all  too  still  for  mortal  rest, 
For  pitiless  thoughts  were  busy  in  the  breast. 
The  night  was  long,  so  long,  it  seemed  at  last 
I  had  grown  old  and  a  long  life  had  passed. 
Far  off  the  hills  of  Moab,  touched  with  light, 


[92] 

Were  swimming  in  the  hollow  of  the  night. 
I  saw  Jerusalem  all  wrapped  in  cloud. 
Stretched  like  a  dead  thing  folded  in  a  shroud. 

Once  in  the  pauses  of  our  whispered  talk, 
I  heard  a  something  on  the  garden  walk. 
Perhaps  it  was  a  crisp  leaf  lightly  stirred  — 
Perhaps  the  dream-note  of  a  waking  bird. 
Then  suddenly  an  angel  burning  white 
Came  down  with  earthquake  in  the  breaking  light, 
And  rolled  the  great  stone  from  the  Sepulchre, 
Mixing  the  morning  with  a  scent  of  myrrh. 
And  lo,  the  Dead  had  risen  with  the  day : 
The  Man  of  Mystery  had  gone  His  way ! 

Years  have  I  wandered,  carrying  my  shame ; 
Now  let  the  Tooth  of  Time  eat  out  my  name. 
For  we,  who  all  the  Wonder  might  have  told, 
Kept  silence,  for  our  mouths  were  stopt  with  gold. 


[93] 
The  Song  of  the  Shepherds 

And  the   shepherds   returned,  glorifying  and  praising 
God  for  all  the  things  that  they  had  heard  and  seen.  —  LUKE. 

It  was  near  the  first  cock-crowing, 

And  Orion's  wheel  was  going, 

When  an  angel  stood  before  us  and  our  hearts 

were  sore  afraid. 

Lo,  his  face  was  like  the  lightning, 
When  the  walls  of  heaven  are  whitening, 
And  he    brought  us    wondrous  tidings  of  a  joy 

that  shall  not  fade. 

Then  a  Splendor  shone  around  us, 
In  the  still  field  where  he  found  us, 
A-watch  upon  the  Shepherd  Tower  and  waiting 

for  the  light ; 

There  where  David  as  a  stripling, 
Saw  the  ewes  and  lambs  go  rippling 
Down  the  little  hills  and  hollows  at  the  falling  of 

the  night. 


[94] 

Oh,  what  tender,  sudden  faces 

Filled  the  old  familiar  places, 

The  barley-fields  where  Ruth  of  old  went  glean 
ing  with  the  birds  ! 

Down  the  skies  the  host  came  swirling, 

Like  sea-waters  white  and  whirling, 

And  our  hearts  were  strangely  shaken  by  the 
wonder  of  their  words. 

Haste,  O  people  :  all  are  bidden  — 
Haste  from  places,  high  or  hidden : 
In  Mary's  Child  the  Kingdom  comes,  the  heaven 

in  beauty  bends ! 
He  has  made  all  life  completer : 
He  has  made  the  Plain  Way  sweeter, 
For  the  stall  is  His  first  shelter  and  the  cattle  His 

first  friends. 


[95] 

He  has  come  !  the  skies  are  telling : 
He  has  quit  the  glorious  dwelling ; 
And   first  the    tidings    came    to  us,  the  humble 

shepherd  folk. 

He  has  come  to  field  and  mange-r, 
And  no  more  is  God  a  Stranger : 
He  comes  as  Common  Man  at  home  with  cart 

and  crooked  yoke. 

As  the  shadow  of  a  cedar 

To  a  traveller  in  gray  Kedar 

Will  be  the  kingdom  of  His  love,  the  kingdom 

without  end. 

Tongues  and  Ages  may  disclaim  Him, 
Yet  the  Heaven  of  heavens  will  name  Him 
Lord  of  peoples,  Light  of  nations,  elder  Brother, 

tender  Friend. 


[96] 
The  Prince  of  Whim 

Borne  on  like  a  bubble 
In  bright  little  trouble 

My  elf  child  glimmers  and  goes ; 
As  glad  as  a  throstle 
Whose  tremolos  jostle 

The  rain  on  the  leaf  of  a  rose. 

He  comes  in  a  twinkling, 
With  never  an  inkling 

That  law  is  not  one  with  his  word ; 
But  gives  me  good  wages, 
The  penny  of  ages  — 

Love  wild  as  the  heart  of  a  bird. 

He  laughs  down  my  quiet, 
This  lord  of  the  riot, 

This  Prince  of  the  Kingdom  of  Whim  ; 
The  world  is  his  castle, 
And  I  am  his  vassal 

To  trumpet  the  triumphs  of  him ! 


His  furrows  are  darkening  into  the  hollow, 
Lightly  behind  him  the  blackbirds  follow  — 
By  quick  little  journeys  they  follow  and  whistle. 
Now  a  gossamer  ship  breaks  away  to  the  blue 
(Who  stands  by  the  railing  and  waves  adieu  ?) 
All  night  it  was  moored  to  a  thistle. 

Who  knows  the  glad  business  afoot  on  the  by-way? 
Who  know  the  bold  hopes  sent  adrift  on  the  sky 
way  ? 


[98] 
Song's  Eternity 

Into  the  song  of  the  Poet  are  builded 

the  things  that  endure  : 
The  Pillars  of  Karnak  will  crumble 

but  the  song  of  Shelley  is  sure. 

It  will  hold  through  the  ages  of  ages, 
like  the  heavens  steadied  in  air : 

The  hoofs  that  trample  the  kingdoms  down 
that  miracle  must  spare. 


[99] 
The  God  of  Song  and  Mirth 

'Twas  the  God  of  Song  and  Mirth 
Who  descended  to  the  Earth. 
It  was  He  who  veiled  His  face 
In  the  sorrow  of  the  race  ; 
He  who  toiled  at  Nazareth, 
Going  with  us  down  to  death ; 
He  who  bowed  the  heavens  for  men, 
And  arose  to  light  again. 

'Twas  the  First-born  Son  of  Light 
Shone  upon  the  human  night, 
Bringing  down  the  Final  Truth 
In  His  deep,  eternal  youth. 
God  was  reconciled  to  man 
When  the  ages  first  began ; 
But  that  man  be  reconciled 
God  became  a  little  child. 


So  appeared  the  God  of  Song 
In  the  planet  going  wrong  ; 
So  appeared  the  God  of  Light, 
God  of  Passion  still  and  white  ; 
Came  to  help  us  lift  the  weight 
Of  the  planetary  fate  ; 
Came  and  taught  the  one  relief 
For  the  gray  primeval  grief — 
Taught  that  Love,  though  deified, 
Could  not  set  the  Law  aside. 


[101] 

St.  Elizabeth  of 

I  think  of  that  friend  of  the  people,  tliilt  (a%;of 
long  ago, 

That  high-born  dame  of  Hungary  who  felt  the 
common  woe  — 

Who  loved  the  work-worn  multitude  whose  pil 
low  is  a  stone. 

And  felt  beat  in  upon  her  heart  their  sorrow  as 
her  own. 

She  bent  to  lift,  for  in  her  blood  ran  some  heroic 
strain 

Of  simple  serving  majesty  strayed  down  from 
Charlemagne. 

Queen  of  a  hundred  legends,  star  of  a  misty  past, 

While  cities  rise  and  cities  fade,  her  memory  will  last. 

It  was  upon  a  Christmas  eve,  and  all  the  world 

was  white 
With  snow  that  sent  an  awesome  hush  on  hollow 

and  on  height ; 


[102] 

And  green:  boughs  bended  with  hoar  weight,  and 

under  them  the  birds 
Huddled    together,    making    friends    with    little 

horned  herds. 
And  far  from  soundless  gorges  in  the  soundless 

forest  deep, 
The  wild  boar  humped  up  closer  in  the  hollow  of 

his  heap  ; 
And  workers  huddled  in  their  huts  among  the 

stiffened  trees, 
The  doorstones  blue  with  ice,  the  eaves  with  frosty 

filigrees. 

And  Horsel's  peak  hung  ghostly  still  upon  the 

wintry  sky, 
But  Wartburg's  castle-hall  was  filled  with  many  a 

joyous  cry, 
With  hurrying  feet  and  merry  fleer  of  scullion, 

churl,  and  maid, 


For  now  within  a  happy  hour  the  banquet  must 

be  laid. 
Pert  pages  in  their  purfled  shoes  went  twinkling 

in  and  out, 
And   from  the   towers  came  snatch  of  song  and 

many  a  ruddy  shout. 

Elizabeth  was  there  above,  among  her  maiden  band, 
Spinning  the  new-cut  wool  to  warm  the  naked  of 

her  land. 
(O  serving  queen,  I  honor  thee  —  queen  of  a  day 

gone  down, 
Who  carried  dimly  in  thy  heart  the  meaning  of 

the  crown  !) 

And   now  the  steward  gave   a  sign,   and  on  the 

frosty  moats 
The  sceptered  heralds  blew  again  their  crisp  and 

crinkling  notes. 
There  fell  a  momentary  hush  upon  the  corridors  ; 


[I04] 

Then  stir  of  feet,  then  whisper  of  silk  gowns  across 

the  floors 
Came  onward  like  the  tumult  of  white  barley  in 

the  breeze ; 
Then  young   Elizabeth   the  Moon,   leading  her 

Pleiades  ! 
Their  robes  were  shot  with  thread  of  gold  that  into 

blossom  broke, 
And  jewels  darkling  in  their  hair  at  every  motion 

woke  — 

Yolinda,  Bertrade,  Thekla,  Brune,  Bertilla,  Hilde- 

garde, 
And  Kinga,  tallest  of  the  seven,  and  by  her  side 

the  bard, 
Gray  Vogelweide,  the  lyric  swan,  telling  with  flash 

of  youth, 
How  once  he  stood  against  the  world  for  Hungary 

and  truth  — 


How  singing   in    this  knightly    hall,   circled  by 

courtly  throng, 
He  fought  the  star  of  Austria  in  Wartburg's  War 

of  Song. 

Then  the  young  sovereign  Lewis  and  his  guests 

swept  glowing  in  — 
Lord,  liegeman,  shaggy  baron,  gallant  knight  and 

paladin, 
Each  with  a  winsome  lady  and  a  wreath  of  storied 

days : 
Dark  Rudolph  home  from  Holy  War  with  Lion 

Richard's  praise  ; 
Walter  the  Falconer,  and    Franz,  the  flower  of 

Hesse's  men, 
Who  brought    Elizabeth  a   sword    torn    from   a 

Saracen  ; 

Hellgraf  with  jewelled  glove  agleam  high  in  his  hel 
met's  hold, 


A  glove  she  gave  a  beggar  once  and  he  bought 

back  with  gold. 
And  so  the  throng  came  eddying  in,  and  with  the 

splendor  went 
Ripple  of  silver  laughter  and  of  whispered 

compliment. 

The  torches  flamed  and  faltered3  sending  up  white 
whirls  of  smoke, 

To  hang  as  twilight  in  the  roof  raftered  with 
crooked  oak. 

Up  from  the  chimney  log  the  notes  of  many  wood 
lands  sang ; 

Quick  through  the  flame  the  colors  of  a  hundred 
summers  sprang. 

The  blaze  threw  on  the  arrased  wall  a  gush  of 
golden  light, 

Where  hung  Saint  Stephen's  shield  between  two 
angels  in  still  flight, 


[toy] 

Forever  moving  upward  toward  the  cherubs  over 
head, 

Now  sinking  into  shade  and  now  breaking  to  rosy 
red. 

A    swinging    door,  a   spicy    smell,   and  beaming 

Hugolin 
With  smoking  boar's  head  lifted  high  came  proudly 

panting  in. 
And  as  the  sparkling  feast  went  on  the  board  began 

to  stir 
With    talk    of    knightly    valor    and    the  Holy 

Sepulchre, 
With  prattle  of  the  tidings  from  Jerusalem  and 

Rome  ; 
But  sweet  Elizabeth,  her  thoughts  were  not  so  far 

from  home. 

In  spite  of  rosy  radiance,  in  spite  of  trumpet  calls, 
The  Sorrow  of  the  People  sent  its  shadow  through 

the  walls. 


For  sitting  there  beside  her  lord  a  sudden  silence 
came 

Upon  her  soul,  and  all  the  voices  and  the  horn's 
acclaim 

Died ;  and  the  glowing  pageant  broke  and  faded 
into  air, 

And  only  the  faces  of  the  poor  whose  tables  are 
so  bare 

Pressed  in  upon  her  soul  that  night,  pressed  in  that 
gala  night ; 

Only  the  toilers'  cheerless  homes  rose  on  her  in 
ward  sight. 

And  then  a  graver  thought  let  in  a  darkness  on 
her  heart  — 

A  thought  of  all  the  feasts  they  spread  of  which 
they  have  no  part- 

A  thought,  too,  of  this  splendor  on  this  holy  Christ 
mas  eve, 


[  io9] 
A  splendor  wrung  from  toiling  hands  by  those 

that  tax  and  thieve. 
Of  all  those  fragrant  dishes  only  two  would  not 

profane  ; 
Only  the  bread  and  water  there  had  come  of  honest 

gain; 
These  only  were   not  pilfered  from  the  toiler's 

lean  supply ; 
And  these  she  took  with  happy  hands,  but  let  the 

rest  go  by. 

And  so  the  table  roared  away  into  the  winter  night, 
Until  the  toasts  went  round  the  board  with  laughter 

at  the  height. 
They  drank  to  saints  and  prophets  old,  to  Peter 

and  Isadore, 
To  Stephen,  Vincent,  Boniface,  and  to  a  dozen 

more. 
Then  valiant  Wolfram  in  his  turn  upstarted  with  a 

cry: 


[no] 
"  Drink  to  Archangel  Michael,  that  good  fighter 

in  the  sky, 
That  prince  of  God  that  all  the  hosts  of  Satan  could 

not  tame  ! " 
Up  to  their  feet  the  feasters  sprang  at  that  great 

angel's  name. 
Clinking  their  cups  from  side  to  side,  they  made, 

in  the  torches'  flare, 
The  sign  of  the  cross  with  their  jewelled  cups  high 

flashing  in  the  air. 

Now  cried  the  duke  :  "  Not  all  the  saints  have  felt 

the  wind  of  death  ; 
Come,  drink  to  one  who  walks  the  Earth,  my  wife 

Elizabeth ; 
And  I  will  pledge  her  beauty  with  this  water  in  her 

cup." 
So  stooping  down  he  caught  and  swung  her  golden 

goblet  up, 


[Ill] 

And  tasted  —  paused  —  tasted  again,  for  lo,  it  was 

rare  wine  ! 
More  strangely  sweet  than  any  juice  pressed  from 

an  earthly  vine. 
"  Ho,  varlet,  from  what  pipe  this  wine  and  from 

what  cellar  shelf?" 
"  From  good  Saint  Kilian's  well,  sire,  and  I  drew 

it  up  myself !  " 
She  flushed ;  the  table   stared ;  the  duke  looked 

foolishly  about, 
The  hall  so  still  they  heard  far  bells  breaking  the 

night  without. 

Then  up  spake  Helias  the  Seer  :  "  I  saw  the  water 

poured  — 
Saw,  too,  an   angel   bending   by  our  lady  at  the 

board, 
Pouring  with  courteous  gesture  from  a  flagon  of 

red  wine, 


[1.2] 

Then  fading  in  the  brightness  of  the  firelights 

dancing  shine. " 
She  heard   in  glad   amaze :  he  wins   God's  favor 

unawares 
Who,    self-forgot    in    brother    love,    a    brother's 

burden  bears. 

***** 

And   this   seven   centuries   ago.     And    now    her 

sainted  feet 
Are  on  the  fields  of  Paradise,  making  its  old  paths 

sweet. 
And  there  she  has  her  fill  of  love  where  the  Friendly 

City  is, 
Her  warm  hands  white  with  labor  in  God's  busy 

palaces. 


["3] 
The  Joy-Maker 

Time's  touch  can  dim  our  sorrows  and  destroy, 
But  only  Art  can  turn  them  into  joy. 


t«4] 
The  Face  of  Life 

An  Adaptation. 

Life  cried  to  Youth,  "  I  bear  the  cryptic  key  : 
I  grant  you  two  desires,  but  only  two. 
What  gifts  have  I  to  crown  and  comfort  you  ?  " 
Youth  answered,  "  I  am  blind  and  I  would  see; 
Open  my  eyes  and  let  me  look  on  thee." 
'Twas  done :  he  saw  the  face  of  Life,  and  then 
Cried  brokenly,  "Now  make  me  blind  again!" 


["5] 
The  Story  of  Bacchus 

A  Grecian  legend 

What  boy  with  his  face  to  the  JEgean  Sea 
Went  threading  his  way  over  mountain  and  plain, 
With  a  spirit  as  glad  as  a  blossoming  tree  ? 
It  was  Bacchus,  now  pure  as  the  wild  white  rain, 
But  soon  to  be  worshiped  by  mortals,  with  passion 
and  sorrow  and  pain. 

He  had  found  a  vine  on  the  forest  ways, 
And  a  skeleton  bird  in  a  rocky  pass 
To  shelter  the  leaf  from  the  sunny  rays ; 
But  it  grew  till  he  sheltered  them  both,  alas, 
In  the  hollow  skull  of  a  lion,  and  then  in  the  skull 
of  an  ass  ! 

As  he  lay  at  noon  in  a  mossy  rest, 
The  vine  had  shot  up  all  a-tremble  with  light. 
Now    he    bears    it     home  —  (O    the  doom    un- 
guessed  !) 


[n6] 

On,  on,  while  the  hills  swing  away  out  of  sight  — 
Till  the  misty  far  mountains  rise  dimly,  and  pass 
in  a  silent  flight. 

At  last  when  his  garden  was  furrowed,  he  found 
That  the  bones  were  all  twined  by  the  lusty  root ; 
So  he  planted  the  whole  in  the  deep-stirred  ground, 
And  lightly  danced  to  his  Lydian  flute, 
While  the  leafy  depths  of  the  eerie  vine  purpled 
with  clustering  fruit. 

Then  he  made  him  wine  —  for  it  was  the  grape  — 
And  darkened  its  depths  with  a  perilous  spell, 
And  gave  it  to  man  with  the  angel  shape, 
When  lo  !  a  wonder  and  terror  befell  — 
Was  it  a  wonder  from  Heaven — was  it  a  terror 
from  Hell? 


For  he  drinks  —  and  he  carols  and  sings  like  a 

bird! 

And  drinking  again  of  the  magical  glass, 
He  is  proud  as  a  lion  when  passion-stirred  ! 
But  drinking  once  more  of  the  liquor,  alas, 
He  loses  the  shape  of  the  angel,  and  takes  on 

the  shape  of  an  ass  ! 


[n8] 
Lost  Lands 

I  mind  me  once  in  boyhood  when  the  mist 

Swirled  round  me,  ash  of  pearl  and  amethyst, 

How,  in  an  unknown,  difficult,  high  place, 

I  pushed  the  green  boughs  backward  from  my  face, 

And  with  a  fire  along  the  blood,  a  cry, 

Rode  out  upon  a  headland  in  the  sky. 

I  know  not  in  what  world  it  was  —  Mirak 

Or  Algol,  or  some  further  Zodiac ! 

I  looked  down  on  a  sea  of  fog  below ; 

Saw  strange  lands  rise,  strange  waters  furl  and  flow, 

Breaking  on  newly  lifted  reefs  and  shores — 

New  Africas,  new  Indies,  new  Azores  — 

Lands  that  allured  me  to  illustrious  deed, 

Past  Roland's  fame,  and  all  his  knightly  breed  — 

Fringes  of  lands  no  foot  had  ever  found, 

Where  billows  climbed  and  burst  without  a  sound; 

While  further  still,  on  dim  untraveled  seas, 

Gleamed  lost  Atlantis,  lost  Hesperides. 


["9] 
Poet- Lore 

The  poet  is  forever  young 
And  speaks  the  one  immortal  tongue. 
To  him  the  wonder  never  dies, 
For  youth  is  looking  through  his  eyes. 
Pale  listener  at  the  heart  of  things, 
He  hears  the  voices  and  the  wings : 
He  hears  the  skylark  overhead- 
Hears  the  far  footfalls  of  the  dead. 

When  the  swift  Muses  seize  their  child, 

Then  God  has  gladness  rich  and  wild; 

For  when  the  bard  is  caught  and  hurled, 

A  splendor  breaks  across  the  world. 

His  song  distils  a  saving  power 

From  foot-worn  stone,  from  wayside  flower. 

He  knows  the  gospel  of  the  trees, 
The  whispered  message  of  the  seas ; 


[120] 

Finds  in  some  beetle  on  the  road 
A  power  to  lift  the  human  load ; 
Sees,  in  some  dead  leaf  dried  and  curled, 
The  deeper  meaning  of  the  world  ; 
Hears  through  the  roar  of  mortal  things 
The  God's  immortal  whisperings ; 
Sees  the  world-wonder  rise  and  fall, 
And  knows  that  Beauty  made  it  all. 

He  walks  the  circle  of  the  sun, 

And  sees  the  bright  Powers  laugh  and  run. 

He  feels  the  motion  of  the  sphere, 

And  builds  his  song  in  sacred  fear. 

He  finds  the  faithful  witness  hid 

In  poppy-head  and  Pyramid. 

The  Golden  Heaven  or  the  Pit  — 

He  shakes  the  music  out  of  it. 

All  things  yield  up  their  souls  to  him 

From  dateless  dust  to  seraphim. 


[121] 

The  Hindered  Guest 

Friar  Hilary,  of  Barbizon, 
(Rest  to  his  soul  where  his  soul  has  gone  !) 
Was  a  man  whose  life  was  long  perplexed 
By  pious  juggles  with  the  text. 
The  logic  of  St.  Thomas*  books 
Was  fastened  to  his  mind  with  hooks. 
He  knew  Tertullian's  work  complete- 
That  treatise  on  the  Paraclete. 
He  knew  the  words  Chrysostom  hurled 
In  golden  thunder  on  the  world ; 
And  he  could  commentate  and  quote 
The  thirteen  books  Saint  Cyril  wrote. 
The  controversies  of  Jerome, 
He  could  recite  them,  tome  by  tome. 

The  friar  was  tall  and  spare  and  spent, 
'Like  a  cedar  of  Lebanon  bare  and  bent. 
His  eyes  were  sunken  and  burned  too  bright, 
Like  restless  stars  in  the  pit  of  night. 


[122] 

The  friar  had  built  a  tower  of  stone, 
And  dwelt  far  up  in  a  cell  alone ; 
And  from  the  turret,  gray  in  air, 
He  called  to  God  with  psalm  and  prayer, 
To  come  as  he  did  to  the  wise  of  old  — 
To  come  as  the  ancient  voice  foretold. 
All  day  the  hawk  swung  overhead ; 
All  day  the  holy  page  was  read. 

One  bleak  December  he  fasted  sore, 

That  Christ  might  knock  at  his  low  door — 

Lord  Jesus  shine  across  the  floor. 

For  he  was  hungry  to  be  fed 

With  the  holy  love,  with  the  mystic  bread. 

Yet  Christ  came  not  to  sup  with  him, 

And  Christmas  Eve  fell  chilly  and  dim. 

"  Where  art  Thou  ?"  he  would  cry  and  hark, 

While  echoes  answered  in  the  dark 

Where  was  the  Lord — was  he  afar, 
Throned  calmly  on  the  central  star  ? 


["3] 

Now  suddenly  there  came  a  cry 

As  of  a  mortal  like  to  die. 

Up  sprang  the  friar,  the  doors  of  oak 

He  flung  asunder  at  a  stroke. 

Down  stair  by  stair  his  quick  feet  flew, 

Startling  the  owls  that  the  rafters  knew, 

Breaking  the  webs  that  barred  the  way, 

Crushing  the  mosses  that  fear  the  day. 

Into  the  pitiless  street  he  ran 

To  find  a  stricken  fellow-man, 

And  carry  him  in  upon  his  breast, 

With  many  a  halt  on  the  stairs  for  rest. 

He  washed  the  feet  and  stroked  the  hair, 

And  for  the  once  forgot  his  prayer. 

He  gave  him  wine  that  the  Pope  had  sent 

For  some  great  day  of  the  Sacrament ; 

And  looking  up,  behold,  at  his  side 

Was  bending  also  the  Crucified  ! 

He  had  come  at  last  to  the  lonesome  place, 


And  standing  there  with  a  courteous  grace. 
Threw  sainted  light  on  the  friar's  face. 

And  then  the  Master  said  :     "  My  son, 
My  children  on  my  errands  run  ; 
And  when  you  flung  the  psalter  by 
And  hurried  to  a  brother's  cry, 
You  turned  at  last  your  rusty  key, 
And  left  the  door  ajar  for  Me." 


Supplication 

Give  me  heart-  touch  with  all  that  live, 
And  strength  to  speak  my  word  ; 

But  if  that  is  denied  me,  give 
The  strength  to  live  unheard. 

[  THE    END  ] 


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